


What Is and Who Isn't

by orbiting_saturn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 07:43:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orbiting_saturn/pseuds/orbiting_saturn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All those things that Stiles is, Derek is <b>not</b>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Is and Who Isn't

The thing is a minefield. It’s a mess of sarcasm, all curled up and open, always open. It goes and goes and _goes_ , slick and pink or dry and pale, it goes. Stiles’ _mouth_ , it’s a fucking train-wreck. 

Derek would burn down cities to shut it up. 

Sometimes, Derek can feel the heat of it, from across the room, all panting and swollen with movement. It smells wet inside and like the candy it’s always sucking, and like maybe Stiles has an obsession with dental hygiene because it’s _clean_ in there.

A born wolf, Derek was raised on the concept of control. Not just control of the wolf, but of his surroundings, of the people around him. But Stiles isn’t _his_ , doesn’t play by any rules and just mixes things up. Stiles doesn’t listen to Derek, just jumps in feet first, all thrashing, gangly limbs and that babbling, machine gun mouth. 

Derek would rip and rend to keep it closed.

It’s white noise, harsh static that screams in Derek’s ears. Or it’s soft and unsure, like a whimpering pup. It’s movement and sound, twisted logic, sense and sensibility. 

Derek would, he wants to, he will…

It’s mint and sweetness, gasping murmurs and fallen open. Derek licks inside, tastes it all and swallows it down. It’s tongue and teeth, fleshy and soft. It doesn’t stop, it never stops, pulsing and cringing and biting down. 

Derek laps through a burst of saliva, grips Stiles’ jaw one-handed, tight enough to keep it wide. 

“Shut up,” Derek growls right into it. “Just. Shut. Up.”

There’s more to Stiles than mouth and Derek wants to dig into all of it. 

Stiles is so much pale skin, freckled and slapped over lean muscle. It’s got such a give to it, pressed under Derek’s grasping paws. Derek gets handfuls of it, drags it in close enough to himself that it’s everywhere, long clunky bones poking him in all his soft places. 

And sometimes, _barely_ sometimes, Stiles is a moment of perfect silence. He’s the heady _whump-whump-whump_ of a beating heart and the soft whoosh of a young life’s breath. 

Stiles is stillness and void, broken and beautiful and so very fragile. Derek could crush him under one hand, smash him to pieces with a grind of his hips and squeeze of his arms. 

Stiles is his Jeep, the metal tang of it filled with so much youth. It smells of Stiles and Scott and Derek too, motor oil and cracked vinyl. It surrounds them and holds them the way Derek holds Stiles now. It’s got Derek wedged too tight, hips twisted all wrong to get closer, not close enough with the console and e-brake between them. It’s like the Jeep is trying to protect Stiles from Derek, but it can’t because Derek is Alpha and will conquer whatever foreign territory he must to get at what’s his. 

Stiles speaks out around Derek’s tongue, teeth clashing through butchered sounds, whimpers and squeaks like a frightened animal. And Stiles is that too, scared and weak, but tenacious and ballsy. He gets his hands in Derek’s hair, pulls it hard enough to yank them apart. 

“What the actual _fuck_ , Derek?” 

“I thought I told you to shut up,” Derek grumbles and shoves two fingers straight past those impossible lips. There’s just barely enough time to stroke the pads of his fingers over Stiles’ _hotwetsmooth_ tongue before teeth are bearing down on him. Derek sighs through the pressure, not even a sting of pain, just a blunt human bite tight enough to turn him on, not enough to deter him. 

And Derek watches from an inch away, spit-shiny mouth all plugged up and silenced. Stiles is shadows and light, surprised glassy eyes and a frail slash of cheekbones. 

“You don’t stop.” Derek sounds wrecked because he is, sprawled and broken over this wispy boy. “You _never_ stop.”

Stiles is relenting, gone loose and pliant under Derek, unclenching his teeth to suck pooling drool around the meat of Derek’s fingers. Stiles is surrender. “’m shrry.”

Stiles is lies and sarcasm, shrugging with his eyebrows and squirming hard in his pants. 

All those things that Stiles is, Derek is _not_. But Derek _is_ a thief and he’ll steal it all.


End file.
